


The Grand Tour

by aurilly



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Hotels, Idiots in Love, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Psmith and Mike take a tour of the Continent during summer holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grand Tour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halotolerant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/gifts).



Psmith summoned great reserves of strength to the task of opening one eye. Streaming through some sort of window shone light, blinding and overly aggressive. It was one of those late August mornings when, had one fallen into one of those great sleeps so favored by Rip van Winkle and his ilk, one might have mistaken that bright sky for spring, rather than the slow, final drips of summer.

It was too much, and Psmith squeezed his assaulted eye shut once more. 

Something poked him. Many small somethings.

In this sightless state, the only hint about his surroundings was the arm draped insouciantly around his waist from behind, pulling him tight against a body—presumably the body attached to the arm. 

He shifted slightly in the sheets. An aggrieved mumble sounded close to his ear at the motion. The arm tightened.

Psmith knew this mumble as well as he knew his own sonorous tones. He repressed a groan of relief. For instead of having fallen into the grips of kidnappers and thieves, as he had at first, somewhat wildly, feared, it was Jackson who gripped him.

Worse things had happened. Psmith decided to relax into this protective embrace, solely for the time it took to ascertain where he was, of course. 

He now recognized his surroundings as that of a hayloft, and the bristly bits poking him to be straw. A pair of trousers lay obscenely draped over a nearby pitchfork. By moving his leg this way and that, only to have it recaptured possessively by Jackson’s, Psmith noticed that he was down to just his underclothes.

Mysterious though the situation appeared, Psmith experienced no great drive to stir. A cursory glance around his environs proved it to be a comfortable hayloft, as these things went.

His head throbbed like the dickens. 

A Pekinese in the corner began to yap.

“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith asked calmly. “Is that your dog?”

It took a few aborted tries, but eventually, Mike relearned the ability to speak English. “No, it isn’t my bally dog. What’s it doing in here?”

“Ah, but that would be a secondary question. You see, in these matters, one must organize the mind. Our first task, of course, is to ascertain what _we_ are doing here. Priority of the species, you see.”

“I don’t know which is worse. Your yapping or that dog’s. My head’s about to explode. Can you make it stop?”

“I would call to it with soothing words, but unfortunately my association with it is not so close as to have ascertained its name. And I doubt it would respond to a well-intentioned, ‘Hey, you’.”

“Oh, fine, I’ll go let it out.” 

The comforting arm that had remained—unconsciously, yes?—tight around Psmith detached and followed Mike out of the bed and across the room. 

It seemed to Psmith that the temperature dropped ten degrees in that instant.

Mike opened the door and let the dog out. As he did so, a cacophony of French wafted up the stairs. 

“Ah,” Psmith said softly, “that explains the smell.” He had noticed a scent even before opening his eyes, and that scent was decidedly French. France, in his mind, smelled of burning logs, fog and day-old wine.

“Smith,” Mike said cautiously as he peered outside. “I think we’re in Calais.”

“What gives it away?”

“I can see the channel ferry from here. And a road sign across the way that says ‘Paris, 30 km.”

“Ever the dedicated sleuth,” Psmith congratulated him. “I’m certain that any post you may desire will await you at Scotland Yard once we have finished our courses at the University.”

Mike, depleted by his herculean exertions of deduction, collapsed back onto the straw heap. He, too, Psmith noticed, was wearing naught but his underclothes. 

He didn’t seem nearly as intrigued by this as Psmith was.

Now, more than ever, he had an incentive to remember how and why they were here. Of all the memories to have lost… Last night’s seemed like a trump. 

Psmith choked back a sigh.

“How in the world did we end up in Calais?” Mike asked. 

“My memory is as fogged as the hills of Scotland,” Psmith said. His foot happened to brush against Mike’s leg. No response, positive or negative.

“I remember Pongo Twistleton’s birthday party,” Mike mused. “Some of it, at any rate. After that, it’s all a bit jumbled.”

“Yes, Pongo Twistleton’s party must be the _point d’appui_. I believe I remember having stumbled out of that gathering of excess and deciding to begin our adventure three days early,” Psmith said. “‘Post haste’, I believe was the term we used.”

“At least we remembered our luggage,” Mike said, gesturing at the trunks they had somehow managed to haul up here with them. “If only I could remember why we decided to sleep up here.”

“Undoubtedly, we intended to wake in Paris this morning, but were in no state to catch a train last night.”

“Sounds plausible enough.”

“Not the most auspicious beginning to our journey,” Psmith observed.

Mike stretched out along the hay, crowding into Psmith space, inadvertently, of course. “I don’t know about that. So far, I think it’s all right.”

“Your unflagging optimism will be a constant boon on this adventure, Comrade Jackson.”

* * *

The point d’appui was in fact _not_ Pongo Twistleton’s birthday party.

The true point lay in their first week at Cambridge, almost a year before. 

Psmith had assumed he and Comrade Jackson would share rooms, as they had during their Sedleigh days. But no matter how many times he had written to the disagreeable little clerics who presided over the fates of incoming students, he had not prevailed. They had hearts of stone, these living arrangement drones. 

Mike’s rooms were across the courtyard. The knowledge that, after a good warmup of the vocal cords, he could stick his head out the window and bellow for him like a mastodon was poor comfort. The unraveling of Psmith’s plans in this manner had left him dejected, unmanned.

Instead of Jackson, Psmith had been assigned a certain Potter-Pirbright, who, contrary to his name, was what Psmith considered a dull fellow. 

“You can call me Catsmeat,” he’d said on his first day.

“I thank you for the privilege, but I will pass,” Psmith had responded.

Things had only gone worse after that. The name of Jackson, unlike Psmith, was already a celebrated one on campus, with Mike’s brothers having built a sturdy reputation as keen, likable cricketers and generally the cream of the human species. Psmith did not disagree. Word traveled that the youngest son, England’s last chance, had arrived on the premises. Admirers flocked, word of his exploits at Wrykyn and Sedleigh having preceded his arrival. Invitations to dinners and games and clubs appeared began to flow like so much wine. Girls flocked, like so many gnats to a sweet treat.

Mike, possessing as he did the manners of a king, was too good of a chap to refuse. Psmith had always known Mike to be worthy of such devotion and had sung his praises to anyone who would listen (and even those who wouldn’t), but to have the general populace discover it in this sudden and jarring way left him annoyed and alone.

Mike did his best to ensure as many invitations as possible extended to Psmith, kept the girls at bay, and spent every free moment available with him, but while the thought counted as well as an accountant, the reality was no easier to bear. 

Psmith’s confidential secretary and advisor was too far stretched. 

His grades, at least, excelled. As recompense for startlingly good results, his father increased his allowance to previously unheard of levels. Enough to allow him to accompany Mike to America.

He had thought that was it. But then Mike surprised him, as he often did.

“Are you booked up for after our America trip?” he asked one day during finals.

“I had intended to while away the remaining weeks of summer holidays in the homestead reading more Aristotle. As good of a workout for the mind as cricket is for the arms, don’t you think?”

“Sure. Well, I won a trip as a sort of prize and was wondering if you wanted to come along. You could read Aristotle on the train, I suppose. Not a total loss.”

“What kind of prize?” Psmith asked.

“It’s from playing cricket. A tour around Europe for myself and a guest. I’d like it if you came, though I understand if after America you’ll be ready for a break from me.”

“You might as well be asking if I want a break from the sun? Or a cease and desist from oxygen? In fact sometimes…”

“That’s swell news,” Mike said, after Psmith had finished a long and eloquent string of similes comparing Mike to such diverse joys as a warm summer’s day, a roaring fire in winter, and salt. “I’ll ask about how the bookings work.”

* * *

And so, after a discreet flight from the hayloft, they set out, still and forevermore with no idea how they had gotten to the outskirts of Calais to begin with. Because of the unexpected start, their reservations had all gotten mixed. And the luggage was not all that it should have been.

Still, greater expeditions had begun with less. And the company more than made up for logistical deficiencies.

Never before had the cramped quarters of a sleeper car across the endless expanse of France and northern Italy appealed so strongly. 

While Mike’s prize had paid for all the transport and accommodations, Psmith had taken it upon himself to augment the daily meal stipend to something more appropriate to the occasion. Vast quantities of boeuf bourguignon and rich Bordeaux in the dining car had left both of them somewhat round-bellied and bleary-eyed. 

As the more agile of the two, Mike took the top bunk. His arm and leg dangled over the edge of his mattress. Blue striped cotton dangled aesthetically in front of Psmith’s nose. 

“I’m glad you’re with me on this, Psmith,” Mike slurred, flopping onto his stomach and shaking the entire car in the process.

Psmith had a beautiful reply all set, an unburdening of his soul ready to be unleashed. But while he usually didn’t need responses to his oratorical exercises, he did enjoy an audience. And Mike’s light snore a second later made it clear that right now he had none.

He switched out the light and lay back, letting the fingers of the dangling arm rest on his shoulder.

* * *

Mike’s prize had been for the highest number of centuries scored in university cricket for the year, and England put its heroes up in style. The directions in Mike’s dossier led them to a charming hotel near San Marco. Their lovely little room held two beds and looked made for approval by the most venerable of maiden aunts. 

Psmith’s heart warmed when he saw that Mike had signed them in, and actually put the P on the front of his name.

“It has taken years, but here, in the register of this lofty establishment, I am finally known as my truest self. Here, they shall say in decades to come… Here is where Rupert Psmith formally shed the trappings of his ancestors and began a new family line.”

“It’s only a hotel guest book.”

“It is so much more.” Psmith took it into his lap and perused it. A few minutes later, he exclaimed, “Ah ha! I was correct. There _were_ two elderly sisters in our room last week. They hailed from Torquay.”

“Come on, Psmith. I didn’t come to Venice to read about other English tourists.”

“A sensible proposition and stance. I have always said, Comrade Jackson, that in practicality and a deep understanding of the workings of man and urbanity, you stand alone.”

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Mike complained.

Psmith had insisted upon rowing them about the Grand Canal, but despite many hours spent punting through campus during May week, he was no gondolier. 

“Shall I sing, as that man over there is doing?” he asked.

“No, please. Don’t. Keep your eye on the… on the canal. You need all the concentration you have.”

Psmith did as he was bid, taking them slowly, so slowly, past the grand mansions that flanked the canal.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch off?” Mike asked again. “I can row a bit, give you a rest.”

“Not on your life.”

Mike sighed and lay back in the narrow boat. “Whatever makes you happy. But if I end up in the drink…”

“Then I shall jump in after you and we’ll drag our wet selves to the finest restaurant in this city. My treat.”

* * *

Rome afforded them the opportunity to flex their archeological muscles. 

Psmith read languidly from the guidebook while Mike wrestled with the map. 

“Comrade Outwood would be so proud. We should sneak past the guards and retrieve some beautiful _objet d’art_ to send to him.

“Not many objects left for us to find, I’d wager,” Mike whispered. “And these guards seem serious.”

Psmith walked up to one of them and peered through his monocle. The man snarled at him, but otherwise remained silent. He then walked back to Mike.

“Your assessment, as always, is correct.”

* * *

He should have remembered that seriousness a few days later, when, having unexpectedly run into Comrade Jellicoe and his friends from Oxford, Psmith allowed himself to be dared into stealing one of these fearsome carabinieri’s helmets. He later blamed it on the vast quantities of whiskey at their very festive lunch.

He woke, not in their comfortable little hotel by the Spanish Steps, but instead in a cell that he shared with a large and intimidating Swede who had been hauled in for manslaughter. 

Most insalubrious.

“Hullo, Psmith,” a blessedly familiar voice said some hours later.

Psmith looked up to see Mike standing outside his cell. 

“Have you come to visit me in the clink? Do you bring me treats from home and a letter from the missus, drenched in her tears?”

“No, I’ve come to get you out. Come on.”

The guard who accompanied him unlocked the door. With a sign to the Swede to stay back, Psmith sprang from his metal cot, brushed his wrinkled slacks, and sauntered gracefully into the welcoming arms of freedom.

“How did you manage it?” he asked Mike once they were out in the fresh air.

Mike blushed and stammered a bit.

“I took care of it.”

Psmith had the premonition of something dark hiding behind Mike’s awkward exterior.

“What have you done?” he asked searchingly.

“Nothing you wouldn’t have. But, um, let’s just say that you’ll have to go on to Florence without me. Only for a couple of days. I’ll meet you there.”

“Why?”

* * *

Despite his cleverest assaults, both direct and masked, Psmith was unable to divine what magic Mike hath wrought to secure his release. 

He allowed himself to be put on the train to Florence the next day, waving beatifically with his hat while Mike stood on the platform, hands in his pockets. 

As soon as the train had gotten out of sight of the platform, he hopped lightly off, rolling onto the little stones that divided the track. A conductor of another train honked and shouted at him in flabbergasted Italian. Psmith saluted with a smile and ran back to the platform.

Mike, having thought himself unobserved, walked slowly and was easy to spot. Englishmen in Rome always were.

Psmith followed him through the city and was shocked to see him head, not for the hotel, but for the city lockup. He watched open-jawed as Mike presented himself to the officers and allowed himself to be led in a similar cell. 

There was only one thing to do. Psmith knew not a word of Italian, but currency spoke a universal language. And his allowance had left him with an impressive amount of the stuff in his pockets. 

It cost him the remainder of his summer allowance, but it was enough. They would be forced to live on Mike’s paltry stipend, but they could live through such hardship, as long as they were together.

“You told them you had done the deed,” Psmith admonished when they were finally—both of them—on their way to Florence. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“You told old Downing that you painted Sammy.”

“That was years ago.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I tell you now as I told you then, that the motivation for my actions were purely a quest for—”

“Oh, stow it, Psmith.”

* * *

They finally made it to Paris, which, Mike thought, was no great shakes. 

Their apartment on the Rue de Rivoli was nice enough, palatial really. Psmith and Mike had their own rooms and a sitting room in between. But that was the problem. It was too large. Mike almost hunkered for the coziness of the sleeper cars. Or the hayloft. He’d gotten used to sharing rooms with Psmith, like a couple of aunts.

Except that they weren’t a couple of aunts. This was the problem, which so far, neither of them had had the gumption to solve. But Psmith, for all his cleverness, sometimes got stumped by the simplest of things, could be decidedly obtuse.

Mike was about to turn off the light and climb into bed when he heard the sitting room door open and shut. Then his bedroom door opened. Framed dramatically, pale and unmoving like the ghost of Christmas Future, stood Psmith.

“After the touristic exertions of the day, I feared for your well-being. I have come bearing muscle relaxants, tea and—”

Mike, while not the towering intellect Psmith liked to pretend, was no fool. 

“Come on, Psmith,” he interrupted. He lifted the covers in invitation, but Psmith continued to hover in the doorway, uncertain for possibly the first time in his life, or at least for the first time since Mike had known him. “It’s all right. You don’t need…”

 _An excuse_ , were the words on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better than to say them.

Like a flash, Psmith had blown out the lamp, shed his robe, and crawled in beside Mike.

“This is our last night,” Psmith said as they lay in the dark, side by side. “Tomorrow we return to the hallowed halls of learning. Separated by a courtyard and the vagaries of a lecture schedule.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Mike said with a convincing amount of nonchalance (he wasn’t Psmith’s best friend for nothing). “I talked to Catsmeat back in May. He’s going to switch rooms with me. Mine was closer to the dining hall, and suits him better.”

“Is that so?” Psmith practically choked.

“Unless you want me to write and switch back? I can, if you’d like.” Mike grinned in the darkness. 

“I wouldn’t want to upend Comrade Potter-Pirbright’s arrangements. No, you should let the change stand, for his sake. His delicate nerves wouldn’t do well with so much unexpected upheaval.”

“All right then. It’s all set,” Mike said. And then added, for emphasis, “We’re all set.”

He hoped Psmith would stop being such a blockhead.

“Are we?” Psmith asked curiously.

As he had back in Calais, Mike rolled over and grabbed Psmith around the waist. If his mouth slobbered a little against the back of Psmith’s neck, well, these things just happened. 

“Sure,” he said. “Everything’s swell.”

Psmith, more tentative than Mike had ever seen him, slowly moved his hand to where Mike’s lay. He grabbed it and intertwined their fingers. 

Mike practically whistled in relief. Blockheadedness averted, with mercifully little fuss.

Silence reigned in the room for a few minutes before Psmith spoke again. (Mike had been counting down in his head to the moment when he expected it.) 

“I know you were unimpressed by today’s walk through this fair city,” Psmith drawled quietly, “but I am convinced that Paris is magical. It is everything the novelists and holiday brochures claim, and more.”

“It’s all right, I guess. Night, Psmith.”

“Goodnight, Comrade Jackson.”


End file.
